


Gwarchodfa

by tsurai



Series: (you are a) shelter [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Domesticity, Explicit Sexual Content, Geralt's Home for Wayward Monsters, Half-Researched Slavic Folklore, M/M, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2019-09-14 12:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16913154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai
Summary: When Geralt used to contemplate his future, he only had the vaguest notion about a countryside retirement with Yen. Now here he is: the owner of a vineyard, his tether to Yennefer snapped, and coming to a slow realization that his home has become a sort of safe haven for post-Conjunction creatures, starting with one brooding vampire.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Apuzzlingprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apuzzlingprince/gifts).



Geralt drops the garkain’s head at Anna Henrietta’s feet and barely refrains from spitting on either it or the Duchess’ dainty shoe. Cries of horror go up, the garkain’s natural grotesque a deterrent to any human that would look too closely.

“There’s your Beast,” he says, though even his most neutral tone comes out as a disdainful growl.

“ _This_ is Dettlaff, the monster who tried to kill my sister and slaughtered dozens, if not hundreds of my people this very night?” Anarietta asks, her nose wrinkled in dignified, if incredulous, disgust.

Geralt barely bites back his own disgusted grimace at the mention of Syanna. Somewhere in the back of the crowd of nobles and commonfolk looking for answers, someone sobs, though whether in reaction to Syanna’s name or the mentioned of the deaths, he can’t parse.

 _Really shows where her priorities lie, doesn’t it._ The thought creeps through his mind bitterly, but Geralt can’t bring himself to care.

He motions at the head still seeping black blood. “One vampire head. Dettlaff transformed before he died.” He keeps his face still as stone while speaking the truth in fragments. Dijkstra can claim all he likes that Geralt is bad at lying, but with lives on the line Geralt can play stoic with his truths.

Suspicion clouds her face for a long moment, de la Tour tensing just behind her as he waits on her words. Geralt turns to meet her eyes implacably. After another moment of silence, she seems to gather herself.

“Very well.” She raises her voice. “The Beast is dead!” A cheer goes up from the assembled nobles. “We shall have a ceremony later in the week to reward you for your act of service, Geralt,” she announces, honey sweet over an edge of steel.

“And what of Syanna?” he murmurs.

“She is safe,” is all Anarietta will say on the matter, as if that’s what he wanted to hear. He opens his mouth to protest, but she waves a hand. “Enough! Our patience wears thin. Come, our servants will put you up for the night and you can return to your estate in the morn to wait until the ceremony.”

Geralt looks across the courtyard to the horizon where the faintest band of grey already lightens the sky over the city. “That won’t be necessary, Your Grace. My horse is already nearby.”

It takes some arguing, and Geralt will bet the only reason the Duchess deigns to let him go at all is her eagerness to check on her sister.

He walks toward where he left Roach, trying to ignore the wails and agonized screaming still drifting over the rooftops as the people discover dead loved ones. He can’t rid his mouth of the taste of human blood on the air. Roach stamps uneasily at the heavy scent of vampire lingering on him but makes no further protest as he mounts and turns silently toward Corvo Bianco.

The hollows of his heart echoes as he rides into the sunrise.

* * *

 Sylvia Anna and Anna Henrietta reach reconciliation, because of course they do. He wants nothing more than to mete out her punishment himself, but the presence of the guards stays his hand as much as the memory of Renfri.

Syanna’s lot is a familiar one – whether the curse of the Black Sun is a true thing or the ramblings of a madman posing as a prophet, Geralt has seen the effects on those girls afflicted with his own eyes. Betrayed by their parents, cruelty inflicted on them by those who should have protected them instead – it’s no wonder they turn their own hearts black to shield themselves.

But everyone should answer for their own actions, and this is not justice.

He turns away in the end, and the medal from the Duchess is stashed in a desk drawer to be forgotten. He lays down on the bed – _his_ bed, not something infested with bedbugs that has been slept on by hundreds of bodies before him – and doesn’t rise again until Marlene calls him down for dinner.

* * *

 When the sun rises on another day Geralt slits his eyes open against the light, curses, then rolls over to go back to sleep. The witcher has never been one given to general malaise, but over the next few days he can’t bring himself to rise for anything more than a piss and whatever Marlene can coax him to eat. When he sleeps it is restless, filled with dreams that he can’t recall on waking and leaving him more fatigued than usual.

Guilt eats at him, though Geralt can’t quite pinpoint the cause – because he let Dettlaff go, even after all the harm he’d done? But no, he’d seen the look on Regis’ face as the vampire struggled to consign himself to killing his blood brother, and Geralt couldn’t bring himself to ask that of his friend. Not Regis, who'd done so much for him and who Geralt even now grieved over for those years he'd thought him dead.

On a slightly less subjective front, if Geralt was to condemn Dettlaff for sheer number of people he’d injured and killed, he was sure he’d have to take himself to the gallows as well. There were no end of bandits attacking him, or bystanders who threw themselves on his sword when drunken brawls turned deadly; the villagers that died after he released the spirit captured by the Crones…the examples are endless.

He doesn’t – _can’t_ – keep count, but he’s sure that the number of people he’s killed over the years rivals, if not outstrips, the number of monsters.

He’d let Regis pick up the pieces and mist away as Dettlaff struggled to pull himself back together and attack them again. Geralt knows that primal rage, the pain of betrayal in learning someone you thought you could trust was using you all along.

With a groan he turns and covers his eyes with both hands, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He should’ve killed Syanna, should never have got that ribbon off the matchstick girl, if only so Dettlaff could have his vengeance and Geralt wouldn’t still feel so torn and off-kilter.

He should’ve asked Ciri to come on the Path with him instead of just assuming she’d reject her inheritance. He should have told Yennefer that he still loved her, that the magic hadn’t gone out of their relationship with the release of the djinn’s wish – Geralt might have been able to convince her, and then he wouldn’t be here in Corvo Bianco, alone.

He should have let himself cry at Vesemir’s funeral instead of allowing the mutations to hold him back. If he had, he wouldn’t be shedding tears into a pillow for the first time in nearly a decade.

This is far from the first time he’s made a decision with no good, clear-cut outcomes, but Geralt has always been quick to dismiss the feelings that linger after – his regrets helped no one, least of all himself. Why, then, do his choices torment him now, after all this time?

A witcher’s place is always on the Path, moving forward and only glancing back to assess anything learned about monsters, curses, and other post-Conjunction terrors. It is not the witcher’s way to linger on heartbreak; at least it’s not supposed to be.

Lambert comes to mind, his agony over Aiden’s death and how Geralt let him take his vengeance on a man supposedly settled and retired to a quiet life, if only because Geralt knew that if he stopped him in that moment Lambert might shatter completely.

Hell, even Geralt’s own relentless drive to protect Ciri and the ones he loves has bit him in the ass over and over again – his kind are supposed to be removed from political machinations and the world of human interaction. Yet here he is, known as a killer of kings and trailing dozens of romantic songs and stories in his wake. Of all of those he knows that are still alive, Eskel is the closest to what witchers are _supposed_ to be. And yet.

Geralt snorts, pulling a pillow up to cover the light creeping back over his face. He wants to stop dwelling and just fucking sleep.

* * *

 Nighttime finds him alternating between staring at the ceiling and falling into a restless half-doze. He’s not sure what wakes him, everything seems normal until he realizes that all he can hear is the settling of the house and the flutter of moth wings through the crack he’d left in the shutters. Geralt stares at the ceiling for uncounted moments before taking a careful inhale, less comforted than he would’ve been mere months ago by the lack of motion from the medallion on his chest.

“I know you are awake.”

His breath catches in his throat as the far too familiar deep voice registers. For long seconds all Geralt can think of is a long string of expletives and the fact that he’s armed only with the boot knife he keeps under his pillow. His swords sit propped up by the door, only a few feet away but against this intruder the distance may as well be miles. He lets out a long, quiet exhale and sits up slowly.

Dettlaff van der Eretein stands at the window, outlined by the light of the moon where it shows through the cracks. It suddenly occurs to Geralt that he's never seen Dettlaff in anything less than a full leather coat, barring their fight. Now he wears only dark trousers and a tunic that hangs open all down the front. Even by the dim light, when the vampire turns to face him he can see the deep scarring where Geralt bisected him and Regis dug in his claws.

That they are so apparent weeks later means that they are slow to heal; Dettlaff is weakened, but Geralt still wouldn't place a bet on winning if it comes to a fight – not alone, clad only in night clothes and wielding oilless blades, assuming he could even get to them.

There is a long moment where neither of them speak. Finally, Geralt breaks the silence. “Thought you'd left Toussaint with Regis,” he says, voice flat even as his heartbeat picks up. His adrenaline is already rising, worse because he knows Dettlaff can hear the quickening.

Glowing silver eyes stay fixed on him, the vampire's expression unmoving.

“As you can see, I have not. Regis has other concerns, at the moment.” It's a blatant deflection, and Geralt is reminded again of Regis’ words about Dettlaff preferring the company of lesser vampires. This preference has obviously not left him the most stunning conversationalist; then again, many of Geralt's friends could argue the same of him. Behind his back, his grip tightens around the knife.

“Why are you here, Dettlaff? If you're here to hurt anyone, you can be sure I'm not going to take that laying down.”

“Rhena- Syanna still lives. The Duchess did not have her executed for her conspiracy.” There's an emotion in his voice that Geralt can't quite place, calm on the surface but running deep and dangerous as a dark river.

“No. They… reconciled.” He can't stop his own bitterness at the outcome from making itself known. “You gonna do anything about it?” His eyes flick over to where his swords stand against the wall and Dettlaff doesn't miss the look, the corners of his mouth tilting down but all the anger gone from his voice when he speaks again.

“I will not. My rage has passed and I… find myself at a loss.”

A silence. The lack of crickets chirping outside makes it eerie. “What are you doing here?” _Without Regis to keep you from going off the deep end,_ goes unsaid.

“I do not know. I am without direction – once I would have left you humans to your devices and taken myself to a place where I would not be disturbed, but now…”

His tone of resignation makes something in Geralt's stomach uncoil, though his grip on the knife stays loose and wary.

"What?” he asks. “Speak your piece and have done, Dettlaff.”  
The vampire turns back to the window, tipping his face toward the moonlight. The moth Geralt heard fluttering earlier lands on his hand. Dettlaff's claws lengthen, but he neither gouges the wood of the sill or moves to brush the moth away.

"I do not know.” The words are whispered, barely audible. In the next moment, the vampire is gone.

Geralt narrows his eyes, his grip tightening slightly on the knife. He sits there for long seconds, though waiting for what, he doesn't know. No screams reach his ears; just the soft susurrus of crickets restarting their song and the crackle of the fireplace.   
He gets up at last to fetch his swords, then returns to bed where he cradles them to his chest and stares once more, this time out the open window. 

* * *

He gets no sleep that night but does, finally, manage to haul himself downstairs without prompting in the morning.

"It's good to see you up and about at last, Geralt," Marlene remarks. "I thought we would soon have to resort to extreme measures involving buckets of ice water."

"We?" Geralt raises his brows and Barnabas-Basil looks as if only his dignity keeps him from ducking his head into his collar like an embarrassed schoolboy.   
"I do my best to run the estate to your specifications, sir, but nonetheless quite a bit of paperwork piles up during your...absences."   
"During my breakdown you mean," he says wryly.   
An outraged inhale. "Sir, I would never-"   
"Call a kettle what it is, B.B. I was sulking because shit hasn't gone my way lately."

It’s as much as he’s willing to concede. On the same note, gods know he’ll never say that it was a vampire visiting his bedroom that gave him enough of a jolt to clear his malaise. Barnabas-Basil purses his lips in clear disagreement but doesn't argue. Geralt sighs. "Now, show me what's important enough that I need to look at it before breakfast is done."

* * *

He has a multitude of letters, most of them Toussaint's noble class congratulating his good work on what they've dubbed the “Night of Long Fangs” and making polite inquiries into his ability to attend a ball, a meal, or simply his _availability_. The letters from various “admirers” he'd hoped would taper off with the conclusion of the tourney have only increased in number and, unfortunately, explicitness. He piles them to one side haphazardly, intending to _igni_ them later.  

There is one piece that catches his attention – it's of middling quality paper and the handwriting is unfamiliar, but the postmark on the envelope guarantees _Hand delivery from Novigrad_. Geralt pauses – his first thoughts flying to Dandelion, but though the script on the outside is practiced, it lacks the flowery curls the bard likes to imbue in his writing. The seal is made with cheap, uncolored wax and bears no crest he recognizes. Curious, he breaks it open and smooths the parchment against the desk.

_Geralt,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I've heard of your success with Cirilla and word of your deeds in Toussaint. Unfortunately, I have a favor to ask of you. Well, Sara and I have a favor-_

He breaks off reading, eyes skipping down to the signature at the bottom. _Corinne Tilly._ He rereads again, brain still feeling slow as molasses after days of inactivity, before it occurs to him that it is the oneiromancer who helped direct him on his quest to find Ciri who is writing to him. Her and the godling, Sara.

_Well, Sara and I have a favor to ask you. The banker, Jonkheer. I do not know what deal or threats you made to allow us to keep the house in Novigrad, but the man knows I live here now and is threatening to have the entire place demolished so he can claim back some it's worth as real estate. I'm afraid he will make good on those words; Sara offered to…. Take care of the issue, but I'm afraid any interference would have someone put another witcher contract on us, one who won't be nearly as sympathetic to Sara's wishes to remain in the city as you have been. I have explained the danger many times, including that we may both be burned at stake, but she refused to see reason until I brought you into the matter out of desperation._

_She's insistent that if we must leave the home you promised she could keep, you must keep your end of the deal and provide housing yourself. Please, I know that this is most inconvenient for you, but I cannot think of another means to dissuade her. If you have any alternative I would gladly hear it_.

Geralt sets down the letter and groans, rubbing both hands over his face.

Damn his weakness for beautiful sorceresses and capricious godlings. It’s this soft-hearted part of himself that landed him where he is now, well-appointed but always on the knife edge of Henrietta’s whims, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He has many regrets in life, and even as he picks up a quill to reply he hopes he won't have one more to add to the list before the month is out.


	2. Chapter 2

He thinks it should be harder than this. His lessons in Kaer Morhen were all potions and sword skills and the limited magic they could harness, armor maintenance and emergency weapon repair and endless, exhausting drills that ran them through nests of foglets and caves filled with ogres. None of those tasks included how to plow a field, how to mulch olive trees, or how to manage an estate. Nonetheless, Geralt does what he can.

Much as Barnabas-Basil might wish otherwise, he can only spend so much time squinting at perfumed letters or signing off orders to supply material for Corvo Bianco’s renovations. Even the books he orders from Beauclair and further afield fail to hold his attention after a while. He thinks about journaling – correcting the books’ wildly inaccurate claims about monsters, for a start. Field notes were always something Vesemir encouraged so the next generation of witchers could learn from their predecessors’ accomplishments and most of all, their mistakes.

Geralt’s not sure he sees the point in it. It’s not like there _is_ a point in it, anymore. Even if they have actually recovered the Trial of the Grasses in curing Uma, he’s never going to create witchers to follow in his footsteps. If he even contemplates it too long and Lambert finds out, he’d come back from wherever he fucked off to and kill Geralt outright.

When shutting himself in gets to be too much, Geralt takes to the fields. At first Corvo Bianco’s other residents shy away from him, not used to the attention of a witcher or, more likely, the master of a household. He watches them from afar, actively ignoring their wary glances and muttering. One of the women shies away so visibly that Geralt can see the trembling of her hands from a distance, and after that he makes an effort to ignore her completely in order to ease her discomfort a little.

Finally, one of the field hands plucks up the courage to approach him after a week of this; the man looks to be in his early thirties, not that Geralt can judge human age all that well anymore, with a thick gut and a nose that’s been broken too many times to sit straight on his face.

“How can we be helpin’ you, master witcher?” he asks, timid despite the breadth of his shoulders.

Geralt’s eyebrows fly up. “That accent. You from the North?” A Nordling accent is surprising to hear after so long listening to the rolling vowels of Toussaint.

He hesitates, then nods. “Velen, sir. I’ve not been in Toussaint very long.”

“What brought you up here? Long way to travel.” And people who weren’t merchants or knights didn’t travel often, the roads too dangerous and the coin too scarce to risk leaving their villages.

“...don’t have any family left after the war, and I heard farmhands make more here. Sir.” His voice goes a little cold despite his submissive posture, and Geralt knows a subject closed when he hears it. He grunts an acknowledgement.

“Came out here to see if there’s anything I can help with. B.B. told me the vines got blighted this year and a few more hands would be useful. So, here I am.” He holds up his empty hands. “Put me to work.”

The man gapes at him. “But- but you’re the master of the house, sir, and farm work is-”

“Difficult, I know,” he interrupts. “But I’ve never owned property before and I know shit-all about running an estate. Hands-on is more my thing. So I thought I’d learn how to be useful from the experts.” Geralt gestures, encompassing the man and the people out in the field who’ve stopped to watch them talk.

“If- if you’re sure. I can show you, sir,” he says, the uncertainty finally receding from his tone.

“Call me Geralt,” the witcher replies, offering a hand.

A moment passes before the man takes it. “Lucek.”

* * *

Lucek hesitantly goes over the tasks he was hired for, explaining the types of grapes they harvest, the maintenance that needs to be done both in the fields and the further edges of the property. He directs Geralt in pruning the olive trees and the witcher idly wonders where the man could have learned – as far as he knows there are no olive trees in Velen. But maybe apple trees are basically the same?

Days go by as together they mend the fence around the edges of the estate, haul deliveries to the kitchen, and tend to the vines. The other hands eventually stop staring all the time, though occasionally he’ll still get a wary look when he steps up beside them. He knows his only real hope is to wait for them to grow used to him, well aware of the wariness peasants have of their employers – people who can end livelihoods because of one wrong word or an accident or just because they’re feeling vindictive. He isn’t that kind of man, but they won’t believe him until they see it.

Geralt digs his fingers into the earth warmed by Toussaint sun and feels something swell in his chest fit to burst. This feels good, is the thing. His restlessness was building, being so long off the Path.

 _You’re meant to fight monsters, not set up as some rich farming lord_ , a voice that sounds painfully like Vesemir says in the back of his mind. Geralt shuts it out as best he can.

He’s been fighting back the dark for decades. He’ll take what little rest he can get before the Path calls again.

* * *

Around two weeks after sending his response to Corinne it occurs to Geralt that he should, perhaps, inform his staff of their impending – possibly permanent – houseguests.

Marlene is delighted, all but clapping her hands in response to his announcement. “Oh, I’ll have to order more linens for the guest rooms. Will this Sara need her own bedroom, or will she be sleeping elsewhere?”

Geralt’s eyebrows rise. “That’s all you have to say? Not upset to be sharing your space with a sorceress and a godling?”

She makes a dismissive gesture with one liver-spotted hand. “You wouldn’t invite them if you thought them a danger, Geralt. Besides, it will be nice to cook for a few more people, I think. Perhaps they will appreciate my sweetrolls more than you do.”

He sits back, chagrined. It’s not his fault he’s never had the taste for sugary things, preferring sweet wine if he was to have it at all.

“If I may remind you, sir,” Barnabas-Basil interjects, looking at him over the top of his smoky lenses, “your association with sorceresses is well-known. And it should not surprise you that Toussaint has a rather more... liberal approach to magic users than the Redanians.”

“Careful there, B.B. Your national pride is showing.”

The man sniffs. “A few of your employees may find themselves uneasy in the presence of this godling, however. Many are still unsettled by the upset in Beauclair.”

 _Upset, he calls it. B.B. sure does have a gift for understatement._ He thinks of Lucek, of the painfully shy young woman working the fields who still flinches when a man looks at her for too long.

“Anyone that isn’t fine with that can go, I’m not going to fault them for it,” he says.

“I will inform them. Will you be willing to write letters of recommendation? They may have a hard time finding employment after this without your good word.”

“ _Ugh_ , more paperwork.” Still, he can’t fault the logic. He isn’t going to wreck these people’s lives just because they might have made a mistake signing on to work for a witcher. “Yeah, tell them I’ll do whatever they need to get a position somewhere else.”

“Very good, sir.”

* * *

He doesn’t want to make a big deal out of Sara and Corinne’s arrival, but Barnabas-Basil and Marlene insist on being present despite the late hour. He hears them before he sees them, Sara’s chatter echoing over the hill as they come into line of sight under a rising gibbous moon. She still has wet lilypads draped over her hair, head whipping left and right to track everything they pass. Corinne herself is dressed in a dark cloak, arms wrapped around Sara and performing double duty in steering and keeping the godling on the horse.

He knows the moment they spot him, as Sara straightens and waves her arms, nearly smacking Corinne in the face.

“Witcher, witcher!” He blinks, and between one moment and the next Sara is gone from the horse to suddenly in front of him. He only just stops himself short of drawing a sword as she tackles him around the waist.

“Uh,” Geralt starts, not exactly sure how to respond. He can feel the wet press of the lilypad seeping through his shirt. Awkwardly, he pats her shoulder, relieved when she lets go and bounces back to Corinne as she dismounts off their horse.

“Geralt,” she greets him, waving a hand that she then drops to Sara’s shoulder as the godling leans into her.

“Corinne, glad to see you made it safely. No trouble on the road?”

“Nothing that Sara or I can’t handle.” Her eyes drift to B.B. and Marlene behind him, and he remembers enough manners to make introductions.

“It’s so lovely to meet you,” Marlene says, more energetic than Geralt thinks he’s ever seen her. “I’ve always wanted to meet a godling, and it’ll be nice to have more people in the main house, I think.” Her sincerity is obvious enough that Sara grins up at her and even Corinne graces her with a tentative smile.

The godling peers around at the grounds, then at the manse behind them. “Hmm, it’s big! Bigger than our house in the city,” she says, tugging at Corinne’s sleeve.

“So it is,” Corinne agrees, breaking away to unbuckle the saddlebags from the horse’s back.

“You've not been here long, but this house already likes you. That’s good!” Sara starts giggling at her own mysterious statement. Before Geralt can think to question her, she slides sideways out of view, presumably off to explore. Geralt turns to Corinne and she only shrugs at him, not a hint of apology in her expression. He sighs.

“I and B.B. here can carry your bags. Got a new addition on the back of the house so plenty of room for you now.”

“Thank you, Geralt. I know it can't be easy to suddenly take near strangers into your home, let alone,” she casts a glance at Barnabas-Basil, “people like us.”

“Don't worry about it,” he waves her off. “B.B. here isn't going to give you a hard time, and Marlene used to be a wight so it's not like she's got a leg to stand on. Anyone else starts giving you trouble, you just let me know.” He turns away, missing Corinne's incredulously mouthed “ _wight?”_ as he walks down the main hall.

* * *

The people in Corvo Bianco handle the sudden presence of a godling and a sorceress on the estate pretty well, all told. No one runs screaming for the duchy guard, at least, though two people tender their resignations the day that Sara runs through the yard in broad daylight chasing a chicken. She eventually catches it and appears on the roof of the newly-built coop with the bird in her lap, clucking discontentedly.

Geralt has B.B. walk him through writing letters of recommendation and sends them on their way.

“Anyone else thinking of leaving?” he asks Lucek later. The man eyes him sidelong but eventually shakes his head.

“There aren’t many who would sign up to work here in the first place, I think. But the wages the Duchess pays us are generous, and not many want to lose that.” Unlike B.B., Geralt’s finally gotten the man to drop the “sir”, but it seems he’s decided in favor of not addressing Geralt directly at all.

He shrugs. “Well, as long as no one tries to kill each other, I suppose I can’t complain about the reasons.”

* * *

Geralt almost expects it, the next time it happens. Things have been too calm lately. He’s learned by now how to sleep through Sara’s laughter, and after one incident where he nearly stabbed her, she knows to at least not bother him in the middle of the night to play hide and seek. Still, a disturbance in the air is enough to wake him and Geralt instantly draws his silver blade from its sheath stashed under the covers.

Dettlaff hovers back by the window once again, not looking at him even as Geralt sits up, prepared to dive out of bed.

He’s going to have to start sleeping in his armor again if this keeps up.

“Dettlaff.” His voice is flat with a demand for explanation.

“Witcher,” the vampire says, still not turning. “I have a question for you.”

“And you couldn’t have asked me any other time of day? I know you lot don’t follow human conventions, but generally it’s not polite to break into a man’s bedroom in the middle of the night when you’re not offering a lay.” Geralt doesn’t consciously mean to tweak the homicidal vampire’s nose, but something about the set of his shoulders irritates him on top of the rude awakening.

He can only reason that, once more, Dettlaff isn’t here to kill him or he could have done it before Geralt ever woke. “Bat got your tongue? Ask what you're gonna ask.” That does finally get a reaction. Dettlaff turns to glare at him for the terrible pun but he can’t bring himself to mind. He watches him lean back against the sill, once more all buckled up in that imposing black leather coat.

“Why did you not kill me?”

Geralt is silent, thoughts tumultuous.

“Regis told me it was your decision that my life should be spared. Tell me why. I unleashed a horde that killed countless humans. You above all others should want me dead, witcher.”

“He told you about that, huh?”

“That and more.” Dettlaff’s lip curls, enough to reveal a fang. “Tell me why.”

Irritation bubbles up in his chest. “I didn't do it for you!” Geralt hisses, trying not to wake the house. “Do you have any fucking idea what it would have done to Regis if he had to kill you? He cares about you-” he stops, breathes deep as Dettlaff stands still as a statue.

“I do not understand you,” Dettlaff murmurs, brows furrowed in a manner that reads more as confusion than anger. “You had another higher vampire at hand, one willing to kill for you. Why not take advantage of the fact and end the problem once and for all?”

“Regis is my friend. Your death would mean he had to kill one friend for another – and for that he’d be hunted for the rest of his life. On top of the _guilt_.”

A moment of silence, where Dettlaff takes him in. “And that was enough for you to risk your own imprisonment? The chance that I might do it again?”

Geralt sighs, laying his sword across his lap as he sets his feet on the floor but doesn’t stand. “I owed you a debt, too, for nursing Regis back to health.”

“I did not do it for you,” the vampire says, echoing his earlier words back. They watch each other for a long minute, mercury silver clashing against cat gold.

When Geralt speaks next, the words feel heavy in his mouth. “I felt you, you know. In the Resonance potion.” He watches as Dettlaff crosses his arms, the skin around his eyes tight. “Saw what you saw during de la Croix’s murder and felt what you felt.” He pauses, swallows. “Witchers, we're not used to that kind of intensity. Get most of it burned out of us during the mutations. Hell, most _humans_ don't feel that much in one go either. Your pain was… I don't know. I could understand, at least a little, how you felt about being backed into a corner by Syanna.”

He expects a protest, a snarl, some sort of reaction to Syanna’s name, but Dettlaff only stares at him unblinkingly. When nothing further is said, Geralt tightens his grip on the sword pommel. “I’m saying, don’t do it again, because next time I won’t be so merciful.”

They both know it’s an empty threat. Nonetheless, Dettlaff takes the words with all due gravity.

“Very well,” he murmurs, disappearing without another word in a red mist.

* * *

Marlene leaves offerings on the kitchen windowsill every night. Geralt doesn’t say anything about it because she comes from a time when people were still terrified of the creatures lurking in the dark, and none of the things she offers will attract anything too harmful. Saucers of milk, scatterings of nuts roasted with honey, the occasional burnt crust of bread – nothing that would interest nekkers or the like. The only times he thinks about it are when he actually sees her putting a bowl up on the ledge.

He continues not thinking about it until he comes in late from working the fields to find a fat white cat perched on the sill, lapping at a saucer of milk and honey. Geralt pauses grabbing a few sausages and the cat does the same, looking up at him with eyes of washed-out blue in the firelight. They stare at each other for several moments before it blinks, yawns widely, and hops off the windowsill outside.

This is the first time since he met Tamara’s cat in Oxenfurt that a feline hasn’t hissed at him the moment he entered the room. It’s a little strange, but doesn’t rank on the scale considering that even now he can hear Sara’s disembodied giggling from the dining room.

Geralt sighs, gathering the smoked sausage and some cheese Marlene left under a cloth before he heads upstairs to finish correspondence with Castel Ravello over the quantity of grapevines he wants to purchase to replace the ones lost to the summer heat.

He sees the cat around a few more times, sleeping under the warm sun near the door, twining around Marlene’s ankles meowing for attention, and once even perched on Roach’s bare back as she grazes in the meadow behind the house. He doesn’t think much of it – strays will hang around anyone who feeds them, after all.

Then he catches it digging into a meat pie Marlene left to cool on a rack overnight, and Geralt can only imagine her disappointment when she comes in to find her work spoiled in the morning. “Hey! Get out of there, go on,” he says, waving a hand at it ineffectually. The cat ignores him and Geralt takes a step forward. “Shoo, get-” he starts.

The cat looks up as his medallion gives a short hum, and without thought his hand flies to the handle of his silver sword. The creature blurs before his eyes and where one moment a cat stood, a white raven hunches in its place, feathers ruffing up. It caws its discontent, ducks down for one final beakful of pie, then wings out the open window before he can take another step.

“What the fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about grape or olive farming. Miss me with agricultural accuracy.  
> Find me on [tumblr](http://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/) or [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/tsuraiwrites).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to the lovely and wonderful @[merulanoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir) for the beta and motivation I needed to finish this chapter.
> 
> in case you’d like a visual for how I’m picturing[ the domovoy in raven and cat form](http://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/post/181788877567/if-anyone-wants-some-mental-images-for-the).

“Domovoy,” Geralt mutters, putting the book down on the table, carefully clear of the flour. Marlene hums, rolling out the dough for another pie.

“Who did you think I was leaving out food for? Goodness knows Sara doesn’t like the burnt bread crusts,” she chides, tone far too amused for his liking.

“I’m a monster _slayer_. Benevolent house spirits don’t tend to come up too often,” he grumbles. The last he’d been involved with any house spirit was helping the Baron turn his botchling into a lubberkin, almost two years ago. Before that, it’d been a good decade since the subject had come up. His mental impression of Vesemir that still lingers in the back of his thoughts gives him a gimlet eye – in the old witcher’s opinion, lack of encounters with a monster was no excuse for a lack of knowledge.

Marlene laughs, her face coming away covered in flour when she tries to stifle it with her hand. “At least it is nothing sinister, yes? I asked Barnabas-Basil about it and there is no history of violence in this house.” She motions toward the mantle of the large fireplace. “The figurine was here when the Duchess passed the deed to you, so it must be old. Before my time, I should think.”

“No violence besides the bruxa in the cellar, you mean,” he mutters to himself, but approaches the fireplace anyway. House spirits tended to reflect the history of the domain they represent. If the domovoy here was unhappy over something in the estate’s past, everyone would have noticed the spirit’s presence long before now in the form of a string of ill luck – possibly leading to injuries.

The little clay figurine tucked in the nook above the mantel is innocuous, a rough and unpainted rendering of a man with limbs shorter than a gnome’s and a beard down to its knee. His medallion doesn’t even twitch, which explains why he hadn’t found it earlier. Geralt sighs and carefully places it back on the shelf.

“It will be a blessing upon the house as long as the house is kept well,” Marlene says mildly. And of course she isn’t worried – between herself and Barnabas-Basil’s nitpicky tendencies, they run a tight ship even considering the number of people the estate employs. A household this well-run is enough to keep any domovoy happy.

There’s no prickle at the back of his neck, no instincts tell him that this is something he shouldn’t turn his back on for fear of harm. “Alright,” he says, somewhat grudgingly. “As long as it doesn’t cause trouble, it can stay.”

* * *

No one else seems to have a reaction to the domovoy suddenly hanging about the property. He’s not sure Corinne even notices its presence, to be honest. She seems to be occupied between devouring the library Geralt has accidentally started to amass and corralling Sara whenever the godling seems set on causing mischief.

He comes across Sara parading through the yard again, a chicken under one arm and the domovoy tucked in the other by its front half, back legs dangling free and cat tail swishing. Geralt has a moment of worry, not wanting to see what would happen if a house spirit and a godling get into a fight, but the domovoy seems resigned to its fate – perhaps even amused by its predicament, if Geralt had to guess at feline expressions.

It doesn’t try to flee when Geralt comes closer, though the chicken struggles a bit, perhaps sensing potential freedom from its torment.

“This is Bianchi,” Sara says brightly, raising the arm with the domovoy in it. The cat flicks its tail, but otherwise doesn’t react. “And this is-” she continues with a series of clucks that make the chicken startle, then peck at her arm in a vain attempt to be set down.

“Isn’t Bianchi a girl’s name?” Geralt asks, thinking back to the little bearded figurine and watching as the chicken struggles harder against Sara’s grip. The godling shrugs, unmoved as stone against the chicken’s beak and claws.

“‘S’what he said his name was. I’m not gonna argue with him about it.” The domovoy – Bianchi – meows what might be an agreement as Sara launches into more clucking that sounds like scolding even to Geralt’s untrained ear. The chicken slumps in defeat, resigned to its lot in life. He watches as the godling walks away, limp chicken in one arm and shapeshifting cat in the other, and wonders how his life got this weird without him noticing. Lucek calls him over before he can dwell on it for too long.

* * *

The letter from Ciri shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. The sight of the Nilfgaard’s sun backing the Heir Apparent’s seal strikes him like a morningstar to the chest. Everything he’s worked so hard to put out of his mind the last year comes rushing back.

“I-” he starts as he takes the letter out of Barnabas-Basil’s hands. “Gonna need some privacy, B.B.”

His majordomo studies his face for a moment but nods, taking the finished correspondence and shutting the study door quietly behind him.

The parchment still carries traces of her scent when he breaks the seal. Ciri’s handwriting has never been that neat, but he can see the marks of tutoring in the formation of the letters, Emhyr’s burgeoning influence in her greetings that oscillate between casual and formal.

She tells him about what she's been doing in court, the rigorous political and social training Emhyr is putting her through. There's a word here or there messily scribbled out, a sign she wrote with spontaneity instead of preplanning and copying it out. At one point she addresses Emhyr as “Papa” – the word is crossed out and replaced with his name, but he can still make it out and it's enough to make Geralt's heart ache.

There's a chirp from his side and he startles in his seat, turning to see the domovoy perched on the edge of his desk in cat form. He checks, but the door to the study is still firmly shut, as if the creature appeared from nowhere. It flicks its ears forward when he meets the cat’s eyes, its strange chirrup of acknowledgment unmistakably friendly.

“Bianchi,” he says warily. He should be irritated about the interruption when he asked to be alone, but Geralt can't quite bring himself to be angry at the cat for distracting him from his heartache.

Bianchi perks up in response to its name, and after a moment gets off its haunches to pad over to him. It doesn't look away from him for long moments until finally Geralt sighs and sets Ciri's letter down. The domovoy takes its chance, hopping down into Geralt's lap where it curls up on his suddenly stiff legs, purring. He waits, but it makes no further moves, even going so far as to close its strange, colorless eyes. Tentatively, Geralt reaches out to scratch behind its ear and the cat leans into his hand without looking at him.

Gradually, Geralt relaxes too, and it's not long before his eyes shut and he drifts into meditation the shifts deeper with the rhythm of Bianchi’s purrs.

* * *

_I know neither of us are the best at keeping in contact, but I hope now that both of us are in the same place most of the time, we can write more often._

_I'm sorry that I didn't tell you what I planned earlier, Geralt. To be honest, I wasn't sure I would survive the Frost, and I didn't want to give you one more thing to stew over if I couldn't come back. But I did come back. I did and I hurt you and I am so, so sorry. As much as I love you and being on the path, I realized after talking to Emhyr that this is the only way I can help more than one person at a time._

_When the war is done, Emhyr wants me to take the crown of a united Nilfgaard – where I can help the sick and starving and all those I had to pass over in the past few years just to save my own skin. I hope you'll understand. Yennefer told me to give you more time, but I want you to know you're welcome here; any time, for any reason._

_No matter what, you have my love._

_Your daughter,_

_Ciri_

* * *

The weather grows colder and the season for harvest comes about. Geralt toils with Lucek and the others hauling baskets of olives from the trees to the cellar where they can be pickled or pressed for oil. Unfortunately, the heat and other troubles of the year mean Corvo Bianco’s grape harvest is fairly poor.

“Normally this is a time for great celebration, sir, but even if we sell the entire grape harvest we won’t be making much of a profit this year.”

Geralt shrugs, looking over the figures Barnabas-Basil has written up for him. He’s not surprised, truly. He’s used to gold slipping through his fingers like sand as soon as he acquires it. It’s only through B.B.’s investment and management that Corvo Bianco is turning a profit at all. Still, he doesn’t want people – _his_ people – to miss out on something that takes away from the drudgery of their lives if he can afford it.  

“What do folks usually do for the harvest celebration?”

Marlene looks at him with a knowing smile. “In my day, we invited all the nobility in province to join us in a feast with several courses, including harvest fruits and wines from the past year. The smallfolk had their own celebrations of course, including the grape stomping. Often the best hunters would compete to see who could bring the biggest catch to the table.”

He wrinkles nose involuntarily. “Definitely not going to be inviting any nobles over.” He shudders, pushing away the thought of Anna Henrietta or one of the stuffed shirts from Orianna’s party sitting at his table. “And we sold most of the grapes this year. Game sounds promising, though.”

He’s not fussed at the idea of poaching off someone else’s land, but here in Toussaint he’s considered a noble; it shouldn’t be too difficult to throw some gold around and shoot a few deer in someone’s forest. Melitele knows he’ll have more than enough time on his hands once the harvest is done.

* * *

He keeps setting pen to parchment, but his mind always goes blank when he tries to express what he feels in words.

Guiltily, he sets the pen down for another day.

* * *

The hunt goes off without a hitch, which should’ve been his first warning something is about to go wrong. In the end, Geralt can only blame being off the Path for so long to explain how the kikimore gets the drop on him. His hands tangle in the rope as he ties the deer carcass to Roach and she whinnies, jerking away the same moment he hears the telltale rattle and poison splashes against the back of his neck.

“Fuck!” He jerks away, almost wrenching his fingers out of socket reaching for his sword. The poison burns his skin, dripping down the back of his neck as two kikimore warriors burst through the treeline. He’s forced to ignore the pain for now, leaping out of the way as one insectoid lunges toward him. With one hand he fires off _igni_ , trying to give himself room to breathe.

Insectoid oil dashes over silver and Geralt barely has time to toss the vial aside before the monsters are on him again. Two warriors alone should be easy enough to dispatch, but that first dash of poison is making his eyes water with pain and his head go hazy. He curses again, finishing off one kikimore with a blow even as his vision starts to swim.

The last warrior lunges mindlessly, but even poisoned and dizzy Geralt catches it with his blade, slicing through its carapace as it lashes out. One unlucky flail catches him on the inside of his thigh, slicing through a thin patch of armor and he rears back with a grunt, driving the sword right through the monster’s head.

Geralt wastes no time, wiping his sword and resheathing it. He whistles for Roach – he needs to get out of here before the noise attracts any more warriors or worse.

“Fuck, fuck, this is bullshit.”

There’ve been no reports of monster activity in the area, and as such he only brought a vial each of Cat, Swallow, and a few oils. _A witcher is always prepared_. Fuck, but he’s been getting soft in the cushioned space of the estate.

Roach comes straight to him, snorting in discomfort at the monster corpses and the deer still strapped to her back, but steadfast enough to hold still as he clumsily drags himself into the saddle. The edges of his vision start going black, but Geralt fights off unconsciousness the same way he fights a fiend’s hypnosis – through sheer bloodyminded force of will.

He doesn’t have do much guiding to get Roach on track. For once in his life, he has a home to go to and a horse that actually knows the way back. She canters down one dirt road after another, faster when a group of bandits appears out of the brush.

Geralt makes no move to slow her, speeding into a gallop through the ambush with only a single bolt whizzing over his shoulder to show for the encounter. He clings to the saddle, grip tight on the pommel but loose on the reins, giving Roach her head until she runs over the edge of Corvo Bianco’s boundary.

He passes out with ears full of worried calls of his name and the sound of the domovoy shrieking in alarm.

* * *

Geralt doesn’t remember much of the next day – the a poison would have killed any normal human, no doubt – but even as witcher he is lucky to have people on hand to save him from a week of sweating it out in a ditch and possibly being harrassed by bandits or more monsters in the meantime. They manage to get him upstairs and into bed. His back is washed and a cool poultice is applied to his skin where the Swallow couldn’t knit the poisoned tissue completely.

Geralt drifts, half-in-half-out of lucidity until someone presses a vial to his lips. Trusting – his house, _his people_ – he opens his mouth and swallows. White Honey slides down his throat, the proportions of light essence and blowball slightly off but not enough to render it ineffective. Someone, Marlene or perhaps Corinne, must have found the recipe in his workroom. It’s enough to neutralize what’s left. He sighs and falls into a deeper sleep.

* * *

 _"This isn’t a good time.”_ Ciri’s words echo in the manner that tells him this is a dream, but Geralt can only flow with it, trying to ignore the frown pulling at the corners of his daughter’s mouth.

They’re playfighting again, Geralt falling back into the snowbank as she shrieks with laughter, attempting to stuff snow down his collar in revenge. The sky darkens, wind picking up as the clouds roll in.

_“I’m going to Nilfgaard. To Emhyr.”_

He didn’t know he could relive heartbreak so viscerally.

 _Isn’t this better?_ he’d asked himself, thinking of that portal to the White Frost, how he’d stared Ciri’s death in the face and wished, more than anything, to take her place. _At least she’s alive, at least she’s making her own choices._

But he feels himself crumbling, the dream giving voice to the words he held back.

_“Please, Ciri, stay with me…”_

The sky thunders, and Geralt finds himself falling to his knees. His mind feels murky with upset, with poison, with the lashing tongue of regret as one more person walks out of his life.

There is hand on his head, running hesitantly through his hair. If he was lucid enough to pay attention, he’d feel the sharp nails dragging oh-so-gently against his scalp. Geralt can’t bring himself to care though, too lost in the only soothing element of this poison-induced nightmare.

“Sleep, witcher,” a deep voice murmurs, the words edging on hypnotic. “You will have no more dreams this night.”

Geralt sinks into blessed darkness.

* * *

He wakes with a warm weight on his chest, and when Geralt reaches up to push it away the domovoy hooks its claws in his shirt and starts purring louder.

“G’t off,” he grouses at it, but the cat only kneads his chest as if to soften it his muscles and lays its head down, completely unconcerned.

The only upside to the entire debacle of yesterday is that the deer was undamaged and no poison seems to have gotten on the carcass. Corinne levels him with a look when he mentions this after hobbling, joints aching, into the dining room later that morning.

“You’ve never struck me as someone who looks at the bright side of things,” she says.

He shrugs, turning to thank Marlene as she sets down a light breakfast of fresh fruits and clotted cream. “Just means we can go through with the harvest celebrations that much sooner.”

Corinne snorts and Marlene swats at his arm. “I think I speak for everyone on the estate when we say we would much rather have your safe and sound than have a venison dinner, Geralt,” the old woman scolds him.

He scowls and shrugs, not wanting to admit that bagging game on his own is a matter of pride for him, at this point. “Well, you’ve already got it, so we may as well keep on with it. Marlene, you and B.B. finish setting up for the party.”

“And where might you be while your majordomo and I perform these tasks?” she asks, setting her hands on her hips. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Corinne hide her smile behind a copy of _Ars Armandi_.

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Gotta go clear out the monster nest before the kikimores spread or kill anyone.” He might even get some gold out of it, if he contacts the Archambeau family that owns the forest and land surrounding it. A thought niggles at the back of his mind and Geralt frowns as he suddenly remembers the Archambeau matriarch has sent him more than one of those flowery, perfumed invitations to “walk the grounds” of her estate. Maybe not, then.

He’s dragged out of his musings when Marlene sighs. “I shall not tell you not to do your duty, Geralt, but I do wish you would take more time to rest before you set off fighting all the evils of the world again.”

He tries to smile, but it twists into something bitter he can’t quite manage to shove down. Instead he reaches out to squeeze her hand. He can see where she’s coming from, though he can’t really understand it. Barring recently, the witcher’s life is all he knows, and he can’t bring himself to contemplate what it means that he is very tempted by the idea of _taking his time_.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he tries to reassure her.

* * *

Geralt sets off to exterminate the kikimores with every potion and bomb he could think to need, sword sharpened and armor repaired. So in the usual direction of fuckery his life likes to take, everything goes off without a hitch. The warriors and workers fall to his blade one by one, and the queen dies when he collapses the last tunnel on her and drives his sword through her brain. He comes away with only a few scratches that a half-dose of Swallow fixes in a few minutes.

His sense of witcher pride thus avenged, Geralt is left staring at the ruins of the surrounding forest strewn with monster corpses. He sighs, pulling out a knife.

Even if he can’t turn in the trophies, the alchemy ingredients will make this trip worth it. It’s been a long time since he had any Kikimore’s Ire on hand.

* * *

The next morning dawns to a bustle of activity as the last preparations for the celebration are put in place. He has to give B.B. and Marlene credit – they work incredibly quickly. Granted, their job is made easier by forgoing any invitations for nobles. At Geralt’s request, the party is only for the friends and family of his own employees. He’s gotten to know a few on a surface level over the past few months, although Lucek and B.B. still tend to be his points of contact.

Sara is already wreaking havoc – the noise of the people gathering outside crescendoes as what sounds like the entirety of the chicken coop starts squawking in unison. Corinne sighs and wordlessly makes her way out of the study, leaving Geralt to the last bits of correspondence the witcher has been putting off for days. B.B. _insisted_ he finish it before he “partakes in the festivities”. They both know he’ll probably be hungover and next to useless for days, barring any life or death situations.

He’s on the second-to-last letter, peering at a word that may or may not be “manhood” when Bianchi lands on the windowsill. He’d left the window open for the noise below to filter in, and the domovoy in its raven form takes full advantage. He’s just about to ignore it and go back to work when it lets out a loud caw, followed by a strange warble. It bobs its head when he looks up, those strangely colorless eyes meeting his head on.

“What?” Geralt asks, feeling wary. Normally the creature is content enough to simply sit in his presence, only asking for petting in cat form or to beg food off him. It doesn’t do so now, tilting its head before it hops, turning so it faces back outside.

Curious, he moves to the window and look out. Nothing seems amiss, just people milling about. He can even see the beginnings of a small stage set up in the courtyard where Lucek and a few others had volunteered their fiddles and drums. When he turns back to Bianchi, the domovoy squawks again before launching off the windowsill to drop over the tiled roof and out of sight.

Geralt sighs, his gut telling him to follow it and see what it wants to show him, but the rest of him knowing if he doesn’t get these letters finished there will be hell to pay in the full weight of B.B.’s icy disappointment.

Geralt wouldn’t be who he was if he wasn’t already halfway down the stairs a moment later. He makes it outside, thankfully without anyone remarking on his presence, but can’t find Bianchi anywhere at a glance. An older woman bustles by him, a basket of fresh-baked bread under one arm, and Geralt turns.

“Hey, have you seen-” he cuts off, voice caught in his throat by the sight of a dark shape leaning against the manor wall, well out of the way of the crowd but still managing to stick out due to a dark leather coat and stony expression.

_Dettlaff._

“Oh, shit.”


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing that runs through Geralt's mind is instinct more than words: _protect_. He is surrounded by cannon fodder, people who are _his_ responsibility if shit is about to go down. He can't let them come to harm.

The second is the realization that, for all Dettlaff has been to Corvo Bianco before, there was a mental disconnect between the vampire's presence on the estate and what it actually means for _Geralt_ to see him here, in the awkward light of day. Quite suddenly, the threat to more than just himself is blindingly real.

Dettlaff looks up in response to his curse and their eyes meet just as his tension peaks, Geralt already twitching for his sword. The vampire straightens as if to speak, taking half a step forward.

They're interrupted when Bianchi caws, startling the witcher as the raven flutters down into sight. He hisses through his teeth when it lands on Dettlaff's arm, the limb upraised to provide a perch seemingly by instinct; a move he’s almost positive was ingrained by time spent around Regis’ ravens. He’s treated to the full range of the vampire's surprise as Dettlaff gets a good look at the bird, eyebrows rising as Bianchi sidles up his arm and onto his shoulder.

Taking advantage of the pause, Geralt quickly closes the distance between them.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, tone as even as he can manage with adrenaline ratcheting up his pulse.

Dettlaff finally looks away from the raven on his shoulder. “You told me I should visit during the day,” he says, though his mild tone is belied by his arms crossing defensively.

“No, I—” Geralt stops, unsure how to respond because he most certainly _implied_ something of the sort, even if he never expected to be taken up on it. He pulls in a sharp breath, consciously relaxing his hands and loosening his shoulders. His options here are few, especially when he has very little grasp on how Dettlaff acts when not backed into a corner. Geralt has no idea how he will react to being asked to leave, and for now he’s calm – something Geralt wants to preserve.

“All right,” he finally says, surprising himself with how steady his voice comes out. “Welcome to the harvest party, then. Any particular reason you chose today, or did you just want to…be around?” he finishes, a little helplessly. There is a part of him that wants to make threats, to say exactly what he’d do to him if Dettlaff touches so much as a hair on any of his people’s heads.

Yet, the larger part calls for more caution. He’s made his threats before and had them acknowledged. The best thing Geralt can do now is keep a close eye on him and be prepared for a fight should Dettlaff step out of line.

Dettlaff stares at him piercingly for a long moment before bowing his head ever-so-slightly. “I would appreciate your company this evening, witcher. I have been to festivals before, but never one on such an estate.”

Bianchi warbles at them both before Geralt can come up with a reply and drops off Dettlaff’s shoulder, melting into cat form halfway down. The domovoy purrs audibly, rubbing its cheek against the vampire’s boot before it takes off, disappearing amidst the crowd.

Just like that, Geralt can’t think of anything more to say. Thankfully, Dettlaff seems content to follow him around as Geralt fights his instinct to lead the vampire away from other people. He volunteers to help finish the musician's stage just as dusk falls, Dettlaff a silent presence at his back that makes the hair on his neck prickle. No one approaches them during that time, everyone busy with their own tasks and B.B. thankfully nowhere in sight to get on his ass about the letters.

He eventually sets his hammer down, only to find a bottle of wine and a goblet shoved into his hands by one of the farmhands. “Drink up, Master Witcher!” the young man cheers. Geralt tenses when he approaches Dettlaff, but the man only hands out another goblet, which the vampire accepts stoically, before disappearing back the way he came.

An old woman with a hand drum makes her way onto the stage, and the courtyard starts to light up with various lanterns – it’s time for the festivities to begin.

The drum starts up as Lucek climbs to the stage with his fiddle and Geralt turns to Dettlaff. “C’mon,” he says, jerking his head towards one of many tables set up along the edge of the courtyard, away from the gathering crowd.

Dettlaff seems almost grateful to be pulled away from the throng of people, practically melting into the shadows cast by lamplight as soon as he sits. Geralt joins him on the other side of the table, draining his glass and pouring another before he turns to look out over the crowd.

Dettlaff doesn’t seem one for inane chatter. That suits Geralt just fine. He keeps quiet as people mill about, some starting to dance. On the far side, someone has set up a game of throwing hatchets at a target while the guests are still sober enough not to be a danger to themselves.

Overall, the crowd is larger than he expected; many of the faces are people he’s never seen before in his life, let alone on the estate. And here they are, brought to a single place because Geralt is trying to make Corvo Bianco into something of a home. Something he didn’t think he could actually have.

In the last few months he’d poured all the funds from Anna Henrietta’s “reward” into remodeling the estate: adding rooms, buying hardier vines, and starting a large patch of herbs that were useful in alchemy. The Duchess still paid his workers’ wages for now, but that would change with the turn of the year.

It’s a prospect edging on terrifying. Geralt’s been alive for nearly eighty years with no roots but those set down in Kaer Morhen during the winter; responsibility for other people beyond fighting to protect them or, in Dandelion’s case, bust him out of jail, is still beyond his ken. B.B. runs things well, but can never quite conceal his wince when Geralt mentions he’s never learned how to balance a ledger.

He watches a father hold his daughter by the hands so she can stand on his shoes, giggling every time he takes a step too large for her or twirls to the music. The sight makes his heart ache, but he hides the wistful twist of his mouth behind another sip of wine.

These are his people now; he’ll do what he can.

“Hey, I know you!”

Geralt jerks, spilling drink over his hand as Sara suddenly appears beside him, but she doesn’t even look at him, her large blue eyes fixed on Dettlaff. The vampire double-takes at the sight of her before he can smooth his expression back to something neutral.

Dettlaff sets his goblet on the table. “I do not believe we have met before…” he trails off, but whether he is fishing for an introduction or just expressing confusion Geralt will never know, as Sara pushes right past that point with her conversation.

“You’re the reason Bianchi keeps chasing all the ravens away! Also, the chickens don’t like you because you’re a vampire and they’re afraid you’re gonna eat them. Can I see your teeth?”

“Sara!” Geralt barks, because she’s being far too noisy, her mere presence drawing attention. Already some of the people closest are throwing them startled looks, taken aback by the godling’s blue skin and wide, inhuman eyes. He can only be thankful when one of the farmhands whose name he doesn’t know is quick to step in, reassuring his friends that the “witcher’s pet” is harmless.

Geralt sighs, unhappy but unable to do anything about that attitude at the moment. He turns back to scold the godling to be less conspicuous, but arrests his movement when he catches the look on the vampire’s face. Because Dettlaff is smiling. Close-mouthed, as Regis does, but a smile nonetheless.

“Perhaps some other time, when we are somewhere less public,” he says, tone gentler than anything Geralt has previously heard from him. “I must appear human, or things would become rather dangerous.”

Geralt notes he doesn’t say _who_ the situation would become dangerous for. They both know.

Sara tilts her head, thinking it over. “Not here, though. The witcher knows you, so that means you’re okay.”

Geralt chokes a bit, taken aback. “Ah, I’m glad you have so much faith in me, but humans get scared of v—” he cuts off, not wanting to chance saying the word aloud again.

She turns from him to peer at Dettlaff, as if wondering what could possibly be so frightening about him. “Ah, they’re like the chickens. But worse, because they can’t even tell.”

Geralt pauses, not sure how to respond to that, but he can see another small smile Dettlaff is trying to conceal with his goblet.

The godling sighs, hopping down from her perch beside him. “Well, that’s boring. You need to come sometime when all the humans aren’t around and then you can show me!” She waves, disappearing without so much as a goodbye.

A moment later, Geralt hears the squawking of a chicken followed by the despairing wail of, “My _cassoulet_!” across the courtyard and barely refrains from putting his head in his hands.

This is, of course, the moment that Barnabas-Basil finds them. “Master Geralt,” a voice calls from behind and Geralt sighs, ignoring Dettlaff’s inquisitive look.

A plate of venison and other Toussaintois dishes is set before him, then one is placed in front of Dettlaff without asking if he wants it. Geralt doesn’t look up but he can feel B.B.’s glare on the side of his head.

“And who might this gentleman be?” B.B. asks, sounding at that moment so much like Emhyr’s chamberlain it sends a shiver down his spine.

Geralt blinks. “This is De— ah, Dom,” he says, stumbling over the lie. From Dettlaff and B.B.’s matching raised brows, their incredulity is clear. “Dom, this is Barnabas-Basil, my majordomo.”

B.B. recovers as admirably as always. “It is a pleasure, Master Dom.”

“Domarad, please,” the vampire replies, only hitching slightly over the pseudonym. “It is a pleasure to meet you as well.”

His majordomo’s curiosity is palpable in the presence of a near stranger that Geralt treats so familiarly, and it’s all he can do to head B.B. off at the pass. “B.B., could you get my gwent decks?” Now armed with food and drink, he needs another way to occupy Dettlaff’s time.

Barnabas-Basil does nothing so uncouth as sigh, but his exasperation is obvious in the set of his shoulders. “I take it no further letters will be written tonight. Very well, I will be back with you shortly.” Without another word he stalks off, hands clasped primly behind his back.

When Geralt turns back to Dettlaff, the vampire has yet to move or take a bite of the food.

“Try the venison,” Geralt advises as he picks up his own fork. “Marlene is a great cook.” He watches as Dettlaff copies him with trepidation. The look that passes over his face at the first mouthful is surprised before it falls into something unreadable.

Minutes pass where the only sound is the music and chatter of the crowd before B.B. returns with several black silk bags in hand. “Your decks, sir.” He walks away and Geralt sighs again, knowing he’ll have to deal with B.B’s icy disappointment over the next few days if he doesn’t apologize later.

“Know how to play gwent?” He hands Dettlaff a bag and immediately recognises it for Scoia’tael when the vampire draws out a card with a green back.

Dettlaff’s shoulders hunch immediately, though he forcibly relaxes them a moment later. “I learned something of it. From the Count.”

 _Ah_. Geralt refrains from scolding himself when he couldn’t have known. “Pick a deck, then.”

Dettlaff, of course, chooses Nilfgaard, as if his ever-so-slight resemblance to the Emperor wasn’t already eerie enough. He can only be grateful that despite his past, Dettlaff tends more towards hot temper than sheer, cold-blooded ruthlessness. That would be one step too far.

Geralt shuffles Skellige, ready to try his hand again at the new deck.

Little more is said after that – aside for Geralt’s occasional advice – as one hour passes, then two. Neither takes notice as the crowd begins to thin, people leaving for their homes in carts or on foot. Geralt also doesn’t wonder why the whole party has gone by without him being called to some ‘hostly’ duties such as socializing or getting rip-roaringly drunk. They play game after game quietly, switching decks and then swapping with each other.

Geralt finally takes notice of the time when the lamps closest to them begin to flicker and dim as they run out of oil. He glances up, taking in the few drunkards passed out on benches or in the grass and one lone man, also drunk, strumming a lute while lying flat out on the stage. He looks back to see that Dettlaff is also just taking notice of their surroundings.

“...it is late.” His speech is hesitant, almost surprised. Geralt can understand that – he’s normally very good at tracking the passage of time, but so focused on the game and his present company, it passed him by.

“Yeah,” he agrees, stacking his deck and slipping it into an empty bag. “Looks like most everyone is in bed by now.”

“Indeed.” There’s a silence as Dettlaff puts the Monster deck away, neither of them sure what to say in the wake of an evening that’s been surprisingly pleasant.

In the end, Geralt breaks the building tension by glancing to the manse. Against the light of the full moon Bianchi's raven form practically shimmers from where it sits in the eaves, one wing brought to tuck its head away. The domovoy was the one who initially alerted him to Dettlaff's presence, but between the way it rubbed at his legs earlier and its lack of concern now, Geralt finally feels himself fully relax. Any house spirit worth its salt will sense danger anywhere within its domain. If it's decided Dettlaff isn't a threat, the witcher can only trust that Bianchi will alert him if that ever changes.

He stands slowly, stretching out the cramps in his legs, before turning back to Dettlaff. “You coming back after this?”

It’s not an invitation, not yet. But it’s also not an order to never return backed by silver sword and moondust.

For the third time that night, Geralt witnesses Dettlaff’s hesitant, small smile. “I believe I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment and tell me how much you like the subtle avatar reference

**Author's Note:**

>  **gwarchodfa** (n). - Welsh, "sanctuary; a place of safety"


End file.
